


A Heart Full of Wishes

by TheBlueHare



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Harry is a good sister in this one, John is adorable as a kid, M/M, Magic, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:33:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlueHare/pseuds/TheBlueHare
Summary: John Watson swore he'd never fall in love, he had the perfect plan: His soulmate couldn't possible exist. After all, he'd made sure of it. But then again John forgot to be careful what he wished for.





	1. Chapter 1: If You Ever Did Believe

It all started with a simple wish. 

A wish that flowed from John’s soul and sipped through his heart coloring his bones with the warm sweet scent of honey and its golden light till it came pouring out of his lips in a soft whisper. 

A soft prayer whispered between tears in a cold, humid closet that was as dark as a pool of old blood. “wishes are very powerful, you know” his mom had told him once. “Wishes come true only if you pour your entire soul into them, then there is nothing that will stop them from coming true”. Seven year old John had only laughed at his mom while she told him about the magical powers of wishes looking over her shoulder and flipping a pancake high in the air. He’d known, rather, he’d felt that Harry  was sitting at the bottom of the stairs listening and  looking at their mom with wonder in her eyes. He’d always known where Harry was at all times, even if they were far apart, and he’d always know. 

They always did this, on Saturday mornings John would wake up early, just as the sky was bleeding orange into the clouds and the morning was still stirring up. While the night slowly bleed away into warm daylight and the sound of the waves crashing on the cliff behind their home were the only sounds that made their way up his window. John would slowly paddle to Harry’s room and crawl into bed next to her. He’d stay there for a few moments, listening to her slow and deep breathing, feeling safe, feeling like he was home and no harm could ever come to him there. Not as long as he was next to his big sister who alway always always came to help him, no matter how big the other kids were of how hard they hit. Harry always screamed and hit back till they left John alone, then she’d rub her knuckles on his head and call him a hard head. And she’d laugh while she did it, hight bubbling laughs that made the corners of her eyes crinkle, tugging him toward home, toward mom. 

He’d stay there, next to Harry’s warmth till she’d flip her leg over and shove him off the bed only to race downstairs to eat the first pancake. Saturdays were by far John’s favorite day of the week. Saturdays meant waking up the sound of ocean waves and the smell of warm pancakes in the air.  Mom always made pancakes when she was the happiest. Pancakes on Saturday morning meant warm apple pies after dinner while their Dad held their mom by the waist and told them about his week in the fishing boat in between his mom's soft smiles that looked a lot like Harry's did. John never saw his mom as happy as she was when they were all there, together, having dinner and eating pie with the windows open and the smell of the ocean mixed apples and summer and magic. 

When John was ten years old he’d woken up on a Saturday morning like any other before and he’d known, deep down, he’d known that nothing would ever be the same again.

He’d ran downstairs, not even stopping to wake Harry up, he hand’t been surprised to see her already taking the first steps down toward the kitchen. They’d always felt what the other was feeling, he knew without asking that the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up and a chill had settled down her spine. He slipped on the pancake batter spilt on the floor, he’d seen stars behind his eyes as he hit his head on the  hardwood floor, and then he’d heard the worse sound he would ever hear: the hushed sobs of his mother with a letter and a sea glass stone clutched  in her chest.  After that, John would never again eat pancakes on a Saturday and he would never again see his father. 

Exactly a week later, on a Sunday afternoon John sat in a cold and dark closet, hidden behind his mother’s dresses and his father’s coats with Harry next to him. He’d worn his best suit and Harry her best black dress and they’s said goodbye to their mother. John had known then, that his mother had died of a broken heart. That she’d love their father so much his loss had broken her heart and she'd died. That he hand’t been enough, that Harry hadn’t been enough, and that he never wanted to love anyone as much as that, he never wanted to love. Not if it meant that he too would one day die of a broken heart. And so, he remembered his mother's words and he held the stone his father had sent their mother close to his heart and he wished.

_He will be tall, He will have hair as dark as the night, He will have skin the color of alabaster, he’ll have a voice as deep as the ocean, he’ll never sleep, He’ll have eyes…eyes the color of sea glass.._

_“_ What are you doing John?” Harry had asked in a hoarse voice, eyes puffy and red from crying.  

“Wishing for my true love _, He will be tall…He will have hair as dark as…”_

“Thought you never wanted to fall in love” 

“That’s right, the person I’m wishing for doesn’t exist, and if he doesn’t exist then I can never die of a broken heart, and you’ll never be alone”

And so John had whispered his wish till he fell asleep in Harry’s arms while Harry had wished with all her hear that their mother had been right, and that wishes really did have the power to come true. 


	2. Chapter 2: Head In The Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is covered in sugar when out of the blue he sees the last thing he expected to ever see: the man who would turn his world upside down.

“Take care of that finger yeah?” Greg called out to John as he walked away. 

“Yeah yeah, you know I will” John said with a smile as he walked away.

It had been two years since he’d become the sous chef at The Rabbit Whole and 3 years since he’d known Greg. Greg had managed what no one else other than Harry had done: he’d become John’s only friend. It wasn’t that John didn’t want friends or that people didn’t like him, quiet the opposite, people seemed to take an instant liking to him, it was just that John had never felt the need to really connect with any of them for more than just a passing moment. Not until Greg.

Greg had taught him more about cooking than what he had learned at school, he’d taken him under his wing just as he had started working at the restaurant. Together they had worked their way up, Greg as the new executive chef and John as his sous chef. They were great in the kitchen and the fact that they were great friends was an added bonus that John was grateful for. If Greg and his fantastic French accent had a way of making all the girls in his path weak at the knees and John’s stomach flutter every time he looked his way had nothing to do with it. 

Nope, nothing at all. 

John is making his way back to his apartment, it’s almost 3am and he’s exhausted. The restaurant has never been busier, a source of pride for John since it means that his food is actually good. But sometimes he just wishes to make it home at a decent hour. He’s thinking of a nice hot shower and a good glass of whiskey when he realizes that he’s passing the loading dock for the bakery. Before he can speed up a white cloud of sugar explodes around him as the bags are being slammed on the conveyer belt into the shop. And not one of the guys working at the shop can be bothered to give a damn about it. 

There is nothing he can do, he’s covered head to toe in sugar. John starts to laugh and walk through as he’s raking one hand through his hair and whipping his thumb over his lower lip licking  the sugar off it with his other hand when it happens. He catches the eyes of a man looking straight at him. They’re the color of sea glass half hidden by a mop of dark curls. 

And everything stops and John feels like he’s been asleep till this very instant, like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. 

If John had ever been asked to describe what a lighting strike felt like, he’d say that it felt like looking into those eyes for the first time. 

John can hear the sugar being dropped in the shop behind him, he can see puffs of sugar moving up in the air while he stands there, frozen on the cobble stone, unable to move. He feels the flush spreading up his neck and onto his face, feels the goose bumps forming along his spine and up the back of his neck. The other man is starring right back at him. Before he knows it he’s moving forward, licking his lips in preparation to say something, anything.

And just like that the moment breaks and the other man is gone. 

Twenty minutes later find John panting and covered in sweat as he tries to think if he dreamt  the whole thing up. He ran toward where the mystery man had disappeared, he must’ve looked like a madman covered in white dust shouting into an empty street for someone who clearly had no intentions of stopping to stop and wait. 

In the end he’d given up and walked back home. 

John fell asleep on his couch with a half empty glass of whiskey as the sunrise broke over the water. There was a little bit of sugar behind his right ear where he had forgotten to scrub. That morning John dreamt of eyes the color of sea glass and hair as dark as the night for the first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo!
> 
> Short chapter, next one will be from Sherlock's POV. Also I rather like the idea of a French speaking Greg =]. Comments are always welcomed! Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3: Up All Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well then, this happened.

Sherlock sucks in a quick breath and bites his lower lip down hard. He’s stopped walking, he can’t even remember where he was going in the first place and for once he can’t be arsed to care. Even tho the early morning is blissfully cool and there is still a light breeze floating through the air he can feel the sweat pooling at his lower back and the heat begin to build low in his belly and _oh God_ down below, between his thighs.

John Watson has absolutely no idea that Sherlock is standing a mere twenty feet away, looking straight at him. Sherlock seems to have forgotten how to speak, how to walk, how to breathe. If anyone had asked him what his name was at that exact same moment Sherlock is sure he would’ve simply combusted on the spot. 

He can only watch as John absently walks forward. And dear Lord what a sight that is, John walks like a God, even from this far away Sherlock can see the strength of his arms, tanned and muscular. He sees the muscles flex as he lifts one arm to scratch at the back of his head lost in thought. And it’s the sexiest thing Sherlock has ever seen. 

John’s hair is messy and wonderful all at once, Sherlock wonders if his hair feels as soft as it looks, like golden silk, and he imagines what delightful little sounds would spill out of John’s sinfully beautiful mouth if he pulled at it. Because, _GOD,_ surely no man was allowed to have such beautiful lips if they weren't meant to be bitten and kissed and filled with naughty sounds, were they?

Just as Sherlock thinks there can’t possible be anything sexier about this complete stranger walking toward him, “ _Fuck! He’s walking straight at me, run run run! Nownownow!!!” ,_ a cloud of sugar explodes around John, andSherlock’s throat decides that now is the time to see what it’s like to be completely dry.The sight of John licking, _fucking licking!_ The sugar off his thumb combined with the sound of his throaty laugh makes Sherlock’s knees buckle and the bulge between his legs thud painfully. 

And just like that, Sherlock feels like he’s been struck by lighting, because John is looking straight at him. 

Sherlock can see it all play in slow motion, the flash of surprise and confusion pass through John’s face. The indecision and sudden resolve form in his eyes. He knows what John is about to do a second before John takes the first step and starts to pull air into his lungs to speak. 

The moment is broken and Sherlock bolts. 

Sherlock’s heart thumped through his chest as he heaved deep desperate breaths leaning against the door of his apartment. He’d ran the whole way without looking back. He could still hear John yelling for him to stop, even now he imagined what that voice would sound like next to his ear whispering  his name as he palmed his cock through his trousers.  A low moan braking from  his lips at the friction. 

He’d been so close, god, he thought about what it would’ve been like if he’d stayed as he stumbled off his trousers and pants. What it would’ve been like to run his hands through John’s hair. He fell on all fours in the bed, thinking of what it would’ve been to have those strong arms wrapped around his waist, to have those hands run down his sides, inside his thighs. He thought of how John’s bottom lip might’ve tasted between his own, covered in sugar. 

If he thought of blonde hair and blue eyes as he shook through the aftershock of his orgasm Sherlock didn’t care. He let sleep taken him and for the first time in his life, as far back as he could remember he slept through a sunrise. 


	4. Chapter 4: A Set of Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get to see a little bit of what Mycroft during his younger days. I've always had a soft spot for him.

The smell of books swirled around the room encasing him in a wonderful bubble of calmness. Something about the stacks of books, carefully lined up to the ceiling, mixed with the rich smell of mahogany always brought forth feelings of comfort and even something closely resembling happiness. Mycroft took a deep slow breath, Mrs. Smythe had cleaned today, the wood smelled strongly of polish and the rich Persian rug felt plush and fluffy underneath him as he dug his bare toes through it.

It was heaven.

Father’s study was one of the best rooms in the house, in his humble ( _ok, maybe not that humble_ ) opinion. He could hear his mother’s voice, humming through the open windows while the curtains puffed into the the room like clouds in the planes of the great Argentine Andes. Mycroft suspected that it was no coincidence that his father’s study was directly in front of his mother’s garden and if he was being honest, the notion of it wasn’t completely appalling, tho he would never admit to it. 

He was lost in thoughts of what it would be like being a cowboy riding through the great Andes under the clear blue sky and the hot sun instead of being in England where stormy clouds were ever present. He could almost feel the sun on his face and the wind flow through his auburn ( _red, definitely red)_ hair, he hadn’t heard his father walk into the study. 

Mycroft yelped and nearly hit his head on the desk when his father plopped down on the rug beside him with a small huff. 

“Right then” His father began in a stern voice. This was new, Mycroft thought with an arched brow as his father fidgeted with the seam of his jumper. Father was nervous, but father never got nervous. This was most alarming. In a panic Mycroft began to think of all the possible reasons as to why his father sounded like he was about to tell him his dog had died, a ridiculous thought, since Mycroft had never been inclined to keep any sorts of pets or companions. Mycroft had always been content in being by himself closed off to the rest of the world with his books. No, there was no need for other people, there were mummy and father, even Mrs. Smythe who would bake cakes almost every afternoon and let him polish off the icing from the spoon. 

Mycroft simply didn’t see the need for other people or pets of any kind. 

It made him uncomfortable to see his father unsure of himself. Adults weren’t supposed to be like this, least of all his father. Panic began to settle down in the pit of his stomach, quickly he started to go down the list of all the possible reasons for this conversation.  Definitely not his studies, Mycroft was the perfect student with top marks, all his teachers loved him. He’d done all his chores, he hadn’t made Mrs. Smythe cry in at least a week with his “ _crude_ ” observations. Although he hand’t seen the harm in letting her know that her boyfriend had taken a liking to liberating her rings and pawning them off, it had been a kindness really. He’d began to think if it was possible to get them back when something his father said made his train of thought come to a screeching halt. 

For the fist time in twelve years Mycroft Holmes could not, for the life of him, make sense of the words he’d just heard. 

Certainly he had heard wrong, yes, that was the most logical explanation. 

“Big _brother_?” The words felt foreign spilling out of his lips, his voice sounded far and away, surely not his own.  “hmmmm” was the only answer he got from his father who suddenly found a spot on the ceiling very interesting. 

Outside, Lilian Holmes smiled fondly at the sight of two sets of almost identical feet sticking out from under the large mahogany desk. It was one of her favorite things to do from the rocking chair in the garden, to look into her husband’s study at the two men she loved most in the world. Soon to be a set of three. 

Eight months later Mycroft Holmes found himself speechless for the second time in his short life. He was certain he’d prepared thoroughly for the occasion. He’d even gone as far as to implore with Mrs. Smythe to take him into town and help him spend the better part of his past five allowances combined to purchase his first proper suit. After all, first impressions mattered, and he fully intended to be dressed properly when he was to meet his baby brother for the first time. 

Nothing he had imagined could’ve prepared him for the moment his father had led him into the hospital room with a sure and steady hand on his left shoulder. Mycroft could’t remember ever seeing his mother with her hair down. Long waves of soft chocolate curls spilled down and around framing her delicate pale face. Her eyes, normally the color of the sky during the brightest of summer days looked like the rarest of aquamarines. She looked both exhausted and elated. Mycroft’s heart swelled and overflowed with warmth at the smile that lit up her face upon seeing him standing there, in his best brand new three piece suit an almost identical mirror image of his father, red mop of curls and all. 

The moment Mycroft looked into her arms, the moment he saw that little pink bundle move and squirm Mycroft new he was done for. And the moment a tiny hand tightened around his finger Mycroft Holmes decided that perhaps there was room for one more person in his circle of necessary people after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, comments and ideas for the story are always warmly welcomed :) or just pop in to say Hello!


	5. Chapter 5: Milk and Honey

Sherlock rolled over on his back much like a cat might after a mid afternoon nap on a warm sunny day. All limber legs and arms slowly stretching upward while a deep sigh of contentment slipped by his partially parted lips. Judging from the amount of light filtering through the windows of his room it was clear that the morning was well on its way to becoming afternoon. He scoffed at the ceiling and let his head fall backwards on the pillow. He never slept, not like this, and he most certainly never dreamed of blue eyes and blonde hair.

He didn’t. 

Yet here he was. 

It’s not like he never dreamt. He did, on the very few occasions when he managed a number of uninterrupted sequential hours of sleep. But that was the trick wasn’t it? Sherlock never felt the need to sleep, not like Mycroft and the rest of his family seemed to. He just didn’t sleep, instead he would nap by the windows of the sitting room or on his bed for a few minutes at time. More than once he’d frightened Mrs. Smythe when she’d walked in on him hunched over the kitchen table in the early hours of the morning. 

The first time it happened he’d padded down to the kitchen to distract himself. No one else was awake and he was very sure that Mycroft would follow through with his promise of shaving off his head if he woke him up in the middle of the night again just to “check if he _really_ was asleep”. Mycroft was his brother after all, surely he too didn’t need as much sleep as the rest of the grownups did. In the end Sherlock had laid in bed counting the many ways one could roast cocoa beans in his head. He’d managed to count to five before he gave up and decided that his time was best spent in action rather than in thought. 

And so, with all the confidence of a six year old Sherlock had marched down the stairs at four in the morning, gone through the pantry till he’d liberated the cocoa beans he had managed to pester Mrs. Smythe into buying and set himself about roasting them. Soon after Mrs. Smythe had walked into the kitchens just in time to witness a small explosion that rendered the wood-fired oven inoperable and left Sherlock without a left eyebrow for the better part of that year. That night Sherlock had dreamt stracciatella gelato mixed with roasted cocoa beans. 

By the third time he’d been found in the kitchens trying to bake a banana flavored cake Mrs. Smythe had just taken a deep breath and slyly hidden the matches. Mycroft had been more than happy to assist Sherlock in his culinary exploits by tasting all of his creations. He’d praise the good ones (usually the cakes) and solemnly nod and chew his way through the less savory ones. And so time passed and the Holmes family fell in the routine of each taking turns tasting Sherlock’s concoctions. By the time Sherlock was seventeen Mycroft’s middle had a rather impressive circumference when compared to the rest of this limber body which he continued to hide behind well tailored suits and their father had all together given up and let out all of his waistcoats.  

To no one’s surprise Sherlock had announced that he would not be attending university, as they had nothing of value to teach him there. Instead he would be moving to the city to open his own shop where he could continue his culinary studies on his own. His parents had resisted almost immediately.  “How can an eighteen year old be expected to run a successful business!” Lilian Holmes had practically cried into his father’s chest when Sherlock had casually announced his plans over afternoon tea. 

In the end it was Mycroft who had overseen the negotiations for a treaty between his parents and his dear baby brother. It had been good practice for Mycroft as both sides seemed to be equally obstinate when it came to making small concessions. By the end of the week Sherlock moved into a small flat in the city and his name was signed to a small corner shop that looked only a bit macabre (which secretly pleased Sherlock very much). The compromise came in the form of Mycroft’s promise to keep an eye on his little brother, a liberty he was able to take due to his small government position, and the pledge to keep a healthy distance. 

 

*******

 

Sherlock remembers the night everything went tits up, it had started like any other night.

He’d gotten into a row (yet again) with Anderson over the price of the lemon pies currently being served. Sherlock had proceeded to spent the vast majority of the after dinner rush cooped up in the kitchen “experimenting” with new recipes. Which really was just  a way of saying he’d stayed there in hopes that tonight was the night Anderson got fed up and quit. No such luck. Anderson seemed to be impervious to Sherlocks’s distain.

“All done then, but we’re out of milk again” Mike said over his shoulder as Sherlock finally emerged from the kitchen. 

Sherlock avoided walking into the shop during working hours all costs simply because he hated engaging with any of the costumers. This was why Mike had been perfect, not only was he not a total idiot but his round face and ever pink cheeks made him approachable. Perfect for working the register. The fact that Mike needed the extra help and that out of dozens of fresh faced and hopeful contestants Anderson had been the only one able to withstand Sherlock’s ever changing moods only added to his boss’ annoyance. 

“Hmmmm, suppose I could pop up by the market and procure some” Sherlock had answered in a distracted manner. 

“And some nice fresh tuna for the Sashimi we’re serving this week, we’re running low” 

Anderson yelled from across the shop where he had been moping the floors.  Sherlock simply rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could making sure Anderson saw, but mentally made a note to stop by and get some more tuna. He’d been wanting to try a different type of tuna altogether and now was the perfect opportunity. Not that he would ever tell Anderson that, obviously. 

Sherlock had been arguing with Mr. Kim over the obvious fact that he kept the good tuna hidden in the back when he’d first seen the stranger across the market. The man had been standing next to the rows of sea bass talking and laughing with one of the local fishermen. His face lighting up as he laughed, crinkling small lines around his eyes. Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that color blue before. He wasn’t very tall, but he wasn’t short either, if pressed for an answer Sherlock would say that the man was of average height for the typical British male. 

He was compact but not small, lean and muscular. He moved about with the confidence of someone who was both proud and sure of what their body was capable of. It was mesmerizing to watch, the way in which he moved, the way his muscular arms flexed as he examined the fish. The way his sandy blonde hair bounced around as she shook with laughter.  Sherlock sucked in a breath at the sight of a thin strip of skin that showed as the blonde lifted one of the fish up in the air letting his white t-shirt ride up his muscular torso.

Sherlock didn’t realize that he was leaning in trying to listen to the blonde’s conversation. He wondered what his voice sounded like, what his laugh sounded like. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Mr. Kim loudly called out his name while aggressively waving a piece of tuna in his face. In the end Sherlock had stormed out of the fish marked and gone home. He’d fallen asleep on the couch that morning and he dreamt of seared tuna salad. 

There weeks later Sherlock was in a dismal mood, for the past two weeks he’d been, for the lack of a better word, _difficult_. No matter how many new recipes he tried or how many sleepless nights he spent in the kitchen nothing seemed to appease him. The fact that he’d shown up to the fish market at the same time every morning, not in hopes of running into a certain blonde blue eyed man thank you very much, with little success had nothing to do with it. Nope, nothing. Even Anderson had commented on how much fish they were serving lately. 

Two more weeks and Sherlock had nearly forgotten about the stranger when he found himself staring at him for the second time. He was even better than what Sherlock remembered. There he was, talking to an elderly woman in a purple dress inside the restaurant. He was smiling, hands behind his back, the sleeves of his chef’s double breasted coat hugging his slightly flexed biceps with a towel casually draped over his left shoulder. The woman had said something to make him smile as she lifted one hand to his cheek and Sherlock saw the blonde leaning into the touch. He wondered how the five o’clock shadow would feel under the pads of his fingers. 

Suddenly Sherlock was very much aware of how he must look. Outside of one of the busiest restaurants in town looking in like a common beggar. This was humiliating, he’d only seen the man once, twice now, not even remotely enough to be in this state of _pining_. Dear god, this is what he was doing wasn’t it? He was pining after a perfect stranger. NO! This simply wouldn’t do! He would go home, take a nice shower (cold, thank you very much) and forget about the stranger. He would most definitely not think about how he had looked in his uniform or how there had been a tiny bit of sauce on his golden tanned neck. Nope, he wouldn’t.

That night, after his not so cold or short shower, Sherlock had dreamed of artichoke salad with pear vinegar. Anderson, for once, was very happy about the change in menu.

Sherlock had nearly chocked when he saw Mike walk in, takeout box in hand with the Rabbit Hole’s stamp on it. He had starred at  Mike for nearly ten minutes before Mike stopped pretending to ignore him. “Would you like some?” He’s asked with an amused smile. 

“Don’t be ridiculous Stamford, why would I want to try _their_ food?”

“Hmmm” Mike replied as he proceeded to stuff his face. 

“Did you get it last night? You must’ve, they’re not opened yet”

“Thought you didn’t want any”

“I don’t, I’m simply making sure you don’t eat bad food it’s all, need you around”

“uh huh.. actually a friend of mine works there, he’s the sous chef, gave it to me last night”

“oh?” Sherlock tried his best to sound unimpressed 

“‘Name’s John Watson, you should meet him sometime”

_John_. John, John Watson, John. The name had been swirling around his head all day. Whenever Sherlock least expected it there it was, John, he’d long given up on pretending not to care. It was like the flood gates had been opened at the sound of his name. It was  beyond ridiculous to pine over someone he’d never met. But what was the harm in simply imagining, really? It wasn’t like he would meet him. No, Sherlock wasn’t about to change all his rules just for one stranger. After all this was just a temporary nuance, he was sure of it, it would soon go away.

Sherlock certainly wasn’t thinking of John Watson as he walked toward the fish marked late last night or rather early this morning. He hadn’t certainly thought about the possibility of running into him when he’d turned the corner and decided to cut through the loading docks. And oh God, who was he kidding, after months of imagining what John’s voice sounded like, what his face really looked like up close it had been a near thing not to run toward him in that sugar cloud. 

This morning he’d dreamt of a milk and honey cake with with honeycomb candy. He grimaced as he rolled over on his side and felt the sheets ruined from this morning’s little indulgence under him. Very well then. He’d bake the cake and be done once and for all with John Watson. 

He’d gotten ready and gone into the shop as he normally did. He even said hello to Anderson much to Mike’s and Andersons shocked surprise. Sherlock was in putting the finishing touches to his milk and honey cake when he heard Mike call for him. Not odd, but certainly something serious must require his attention. Mike never called him to the front of the shop unless there was serious trouble. Sherlock took his apron off, wiped his hands on a towel and walked toward the front of the store. 

“What seems to be the prob….” For the second time in his life Sherlock Holmes was frozen, panic vivid in his eyes and a small blush slowly rising up from his neck to his cheekbones. 

 

“Sherlock, I want you to meet my friend John Watson” Mike said casually with the expression of a cat who’s just eaten the biggest possible canary. 


	6. Chapter 6: He Puts The Lime in The Coconut

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, he knew he was starring but there was no helping it. Not when John was this close. John's palm was warm against his, small callouses sending shivers up his arm. His grip was strong and steady, muscles flexing slightly on his forearm which was lightly dusted with sun kissed blonde hair. It reminded Sherlock of a freestone peach.

“Hello, I’m John” John's smile made his eyes crinkle. His pupils slightly dilated, almost overtaking the endless blue of his irises. His furry eyebrows partially covered by unruly waves of amber ale coloured hair.

_Oh_

That voice. It reminded Sherlock of the first time he’d tasted whiskey. The way it burned his throat leaving behind a trail of fire before settling in his belly. Its soft sloshing stoking warmth through his body.Like the coals on the fireplace of his father’s study where he'd nicked it from. Sherlock decided that he could listen to that voice for ages... _Oh bloody hell!_  He’d been too busy starring at his hand in John’s, lost to his own thoughts to realize that John had spoken to him.

Sherlock snapped his head up to find John looking at him with a glint in his eyes. Those blue eyes that were so warm and inviting, head cocked to the side with a small amused smile on his face. It gave him the appearance of an eager puppy waiting for a pat on the head.

And oh how suddenly Sherlock wanted to pat that hair, to ruffle it with his fingers and run his fingernails down John’s scalp. To hear pleased little noises scape those plush pink lips as his hands followed the curve of this man’s head down. Down to the base of his neck... _He really had to rein in this incessant day dreaming!_. Stop these thoughts altogether before John thought him an imbecile incapable of uttering a full cohesive sentence.

“Name’s Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes”

And to his complete astonishment and surprise Sherlock winked. Yes, playing it cool and detached was the best course of action. There was no need to let this perfect stranger know he had any effect on him. No. Mysterious and aloof was the way to go. After all, the theatric streak of things was never lost on a Holmes and Sherlock saw no need to brake the family trait now.

John's smile widened as he waited a full three seconds, not that Sherlock was counting, obviously, before letting go of his hand. "A pleasure". John thankfully picked that moment to stop looking at him and instead began to really take in his surroundings.

The _Fox Tail_  was indeed a one of a kind shop. Sherlock had made sure of it.There was no sign outside that drew attention to it, one had to know what to look for in order to actually find it. This had been a point of a heated discussion with Mycroft who, as the only investor in the shop, seemed to think it unwise. In the end Sherlock had won and there was no sing outside. The shop itself was very small, burrowed between a modest family owned pharmacy and a postal store. Out of the way of most other restaurants and cafes. There was only seating room for ten to fifteen people with the rest of the shop filled with bookcases and tables topped with different and odd trinkets. The walls were all covered in busy black and white wallpaper and lined with heavy wood shelves. The cafe had the feel of a very old and opulent study. Even Anderson with his almost vampiric like aura seemed to be another hand picked addition to the overall decor.

The shop usually opened at midday and closed on the early hours of the following morning mostly due to the fact that its owner seemed to never sleep. There was never a menu or any rhyme or reason for what to expect when one entered. The only constant was the fact that whatever appeared on the counter that day was almost sure to never be there again and to be absolutely and completely delicious. Word of the eccentric shop had spread like wildfire over town and soon there were lines of people waiting around the block to try and get both a glimpse of the mysterious owner and a piece of whatever delectable dish was being served that day.

"You work at the Rabbit Hole"

"I do, on my way there now. Thought I'd take Mike up on his offer and stop by, see what all the buzz is about".

John turned his attention back to Sherlock, clasping both hands behind his back leaning slightly toward a very still Sherlock. Greek status would be jealous. Sherlock's heart began racing at a precariously high scale. "It's nice to finally catch up to you".

Sherlock's stomach dropped to the floor. John remembers. John remembers it's him he saw this morning. _Oh God_ , he has to know, there is no other explanation. It must be written all over his face. All of those thoughts. Thoughts about pink plump lips covered in sugar, the way Sherlock had moaned as he imagined the taste of John's neck while drowning in the waves of his own pleasure just a few hours ago. Oh dear gods above.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, anything that would explain things. Anything to make it clear that he wasn't a lunatic running around town. And as fate would have it, after 60,000 years of uninterrupted devotion, the human language finally decided to take the day off. Starting at this exact same moment. Panic stated to bubble up in his throat where sounds resembling words should be. Just as Sherlock was seriously contemplating running out and never looking back the spell was broken.

_Ahem_  Two pairs of equally amused and relieved sets of eyes turned to look at Mike. Who had been standing next to Sherlock the entire time.

"Sherlock, didn't you say you need help at the market?"

_*Silence* *Slow blinking*_

"Right, well John here can help you I'm sure. You know I can't lug around all those boxes. Besides, I need Phillip here to help me while you're gone"

An all too please smile spread over John's face. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow morning then. Cheers Mike" And without waiting for a reply John Watson walked out of the _Fox Tail_  with a little pep in his step. Half an hour later the loud clatter could still be heard coming from the kitchen and a strong smell of spice and whiskey wafted through the entire shop.

"Oi! What's gotten into him?" Anderson whispered conspiratorially.

  
"Does anyone ever really know?"

  
An uninterested "Hmmm" was Anderson's only response.

Mike moved to flip the closed sign on the door to open and great the first costumer with an ever knowing smile. And to Anderson's delight that afternoon they would be serving bread pudding with whiskey sauce.

***

John Watson could not believe his luck. He'd woken up on his couch bathed in a pool of sunlight seeping warmth through his entire body with smile on his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so well. Even though he'd only slept a couple of hours he felt refreshed and light as air. Today felt like the perfect morning for a run. He might even stop by the postal store and send Harry a postcard, she'd always loved getting those in the mail.

The morning was crisp, the sky clear and blue with promises of fall in the air. Soon there would be pumpkins and apples everywhere with cinnamon scenting everything. But for now there was only the promise of change in the air and John fully gave into the feeling. He'd made it a full five steps outside the front door of his building before images of grey eyes and a mop of dark curls hit him like a tidal wave. He'd mumbled and apology to a poor old woman who shrieked as he almost ran her off the sidewalk.

Without stopping to think John took off at full speed toward the market. If only to prove to himself that he hand't made the whole thing up. By the time he made it to the loading docks of the bakery John was practically vibrating with anticipation, as thought by some miracle the mysterious man would be there waiting for him. In the end he'd just stood there looking like a lost child about to burst into tears. He'd huffed out a laugh and stared to walk back toward his apparent when he suddenly remembered that there was a postal store on this way home and that he might as well accomplish something productive before work. Besides, it had been a long time and he missed Harry.

***

  
Sherlock's stomach did a small summersault as he felt John's body press against his, feeling John's chest against his back. John's hand cradled his wrist and slowly lifted it to his mouth. John's warm breath sending spidery tingles up Sherlock's arm while strong fingers wrapped around his lower forearm to hold him in place.

It had been six weeks since John had first walked into the shop. All flushed wearing that ridiculous tight white shirt and running shorts that screamed "Look at me!". It'd been six torturous weeks of John's smile as he carried boxes of pumpkins for Sherlock. Six weeks of John walking into the kitchen to put away unused plates and stealing looks at him. Six weeks of accidental touches that sent his mind reeling and his body flooding with anticipation and heat.

Sherlock's cheeks were burning by the time John pressed his nose to his palm and his belly lit on fire the moment John took an obscenely slow deep breath against his skin. This was by far the most John had touched him before and by his mother's garden it felt like the most tentalizing thing Sherlock had ever felt. "God I love the smell of lemons on your skin" John basically purred into his palm and Sherlock could've sworn he felt a small flick of John's tongue against his skin.

"Li... Limes"

"Pardon?" Sherlock could feel the smile on John's lips.

"It's limes" He repeated a little louder, surprised at how steady his voice sounded. "I'm making coconut tarts with lime shavings".

"Well they smell just as delicious as they taste" John said as he lowered Sherlock's hand. Not letting go.

"And how do you know what they taste like?"

"Because everything you make tastes delicious" The heat on John's voice could've powered the entire electric grid a week. And Sherlock felt himself smiling, unable to resist John's charm. "If what I've tasted so far is anything to go by". The moment John's lips grazed his neck Sherlock lost all resolve. He felt himself melt into the touch while a small moan escaped his lips. John's hands were on his hips, traveling up to his abdomen and carresing his flesh through his shirt while he suckled a small bruise where his jaw and ear meet. His arousal pressing hard and firm into the back of Sherlock's left thigh.

With a moan Sherlock pressed back into John, seeking more, wanting friction, wanting to feel more of John's muscled body against his. Anything to make this feeling last. Before Sherlock can think of anything to make his need known John's hands start traveling down. Circling around his hips and down his thighs, fingernails scrapping trough his trousers against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and he can't take it anymore. "John! Please!".

Suddenly John's hands are gone and Sherlock instantly misses the contact. Before he can do or say anything in protest he's being turned around and crowded into he cooking table by John's body against his. Jon's lips against his are soft and warm barely touching his. John's hands move to cradle his jaw and Sherlock can feel a small sigh of contentment leaving his lips. Their first kiss is nothing like what Sherlock imagined. It's reverent and loving and Sherlock wants nothing more than to stay like this forever. He finds himself returning the kiss, moving his lips against Johns. Soon the kitchen is filled with stifled moans and wet sounds as their kisses become more desperate.

"Come back to mine?" John manages in between kisses.

  
"Thought you'd never ask"

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fox Tail is an actual coffee shop in Orland FL that I happened to see during holiday. It was rather cute and I loved the name!


	7. Chapter 7: Lemonade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys finally get together! Smut ensues :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone!! If you are still reading this THANK YOU!! sooooo much! I know it's been long time. Life has been a bit of a handful these past few weeks! But I am happy to report that I am back to my usual schedule. You'll notice that the chapter count is now up to a grand total of 9. I feel like we're nearing the end of this particular story. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading!
> 
> Please Please if you feel like saying hi in the comments don't hesitate! Nothing makes me happier than seeing and respiring to them!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

When John thinks of Sherlock he thinks of his eyes. The color of them to begin with. The very first time he saw him it was his eyes he saw first, and there had been something magical about them. Like someone had managed to bottle the ocean after a storm at sunrise and hidden it in those eyes. You could get lost in those eyes without meaning to or even minding.

He'd know those eyes anywhere. But by god he's dreamt of his lips day and night for months now.

_So this is what it's like_ John thinks as he takes a plush lower lip delicately between his teeth, coaxing a small whimper of pleasure to escape Sherlock's mouth traveling straight to his cock. "Alright?" John asks, letting go of Sherlock's swollen lip in favor of exploring his jaw with slow leisurely kisses. "God yes" Sherlock is braced against the back of John's front door, his tailored silk shirt half unbuttoned, revealing the tight and lean muscles of his chest, milky white skin which was once unblemished now flushed a lovely pink shade where John is running his fingernails trailing up to his neck and cheeks. John's knee wedged between Sherlock's thighs.

"It's..." Sherlock is breathing as if he's just learned to, shallow shaky little puffs making his belly quiver with each exertion, tensing and relaxing. "It's been a while since I was...since I did this with anyone" Sherlock whispers closing his eyes, embarrassed, letting his head drop back against the door with a soft thud even as he seeks to grind down on John's leg. "S'okay love. I've got you, it's been a while for me too". Sherlock's blush deepens at the endearment and those beautiful seaglass eyes widen and darken with lust.

In truth John had not been with anyone since he'd seen Sherlock in that alley. Not for the lack of trying or opportunity mind you. Rather, the fact that soft voluptuous curves and small hands had suddenly lost their appeal compared to the smooth and lithe muscles of Sherlock's arms and the plump curve of his arse, soft round cheeks paled in comparison to those chiseled cheekbones, even Greg's never ending appeal seemed to take a step back next to Sherlock's magnetic pull. From the moment John had walked into the _Fox Tail_ there had only been Sherlock.

"For what it's worth" Sherlock managed in a breathy whisper while the lovely shade of pink spreading over his cheeks deepens, "I'm not usually amenable to the boyish charms of handsome chefs" a look of bewilderment that soon turns into excitement crosses his face. "In fact, this has never happened before"

John was grinning now "You think I'm handsome"

Sherlock bit his already swollen lower lip before shyly nodding his head in a quiet nod.

"You better come here then" John's voice was hoarse and thick with want. Wrapping one of his arms around Sherlock's waist easing him from the door guiding him to the bedroom, legs and arms tangling with each other in a frenzy of kisses and touches. They nearly fell twice, John knew he'd have a bruise the next day where he'd hit himself on the doorknob of his bedroom door. But right now he couldn't feel anything other than his hands on Sherlock and Sherlock's hands on him.

He sat Sherlock down at the edge of the bed and began to undress him. One by he unbuttoned each remaining button from Sherlock's shirt, cufflinks carefully collected and placed on the bedside table for safe keeping. John's heart pounded as he nuzzled his nose at the crook of Sherlock's neck, deeply inhaling his scent and feeling the soft tender skin behind his ear under his tongue while his hands moved to undo Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock tried to stifle a low moan with little success as John's hands skimmed down his thighs, guiding his trousers off.

"Don't, I like it... I like to hear you" John whispered into Sherlock's ear. He hesitated for a second before lifting his left hand to cup Sherlock's jaw guiding him to his lips. Sherlock shivered as the kiss turned desperate, rocking his hips into John's hand letting him feel how desperate he'd become, how hard he was for him. The friction was almost too much and not enough. They pawed at each other like horny teenagers. "God you're beautiful"

"Oh God" Sherlock almost chocked on the words, grabbing at John's t-shirt. "Naked, now!" John nearly fell off the bed while trying to take his jeans and pants off. Sherlock was perfect underneath all those clothes with seemingly endless white skin that John found delicious to the touch and almost impossible not to kiss. Sherlock found John's body to be everything he had come to dream and more. Compact muscles that flexed with every movement, a small scar on his abdomen where his appendix had been removed, and old rugby scar on his left shoulder and a very hard and pink cock that set Sherlock's groin on fire.

Once finally naked John guided Sherlock down into the bed which protested with a loud creak of its springs. Sherlock's legs immediately wrapped around John's waist while his hips rocked up seeking contact and friction. "Oh, Fucking _Christ_.. _Fuck!_ " John's breath caught as their erections started grinding slowly together. John had never heard Sherlock swear before, and by God it was the most erotic thing he'd ever heard before and he decided that he wanted to hear it again, immediately. Without warning, John bit down on Sherlock's neck at the same time that he brought his hips down in a slow thrust. His reward was a string of mumbled curses weaved with his name.

He kissed his way down Sherlock's neck, leaving love bites over his clavicle and up to this jaw only to start his path down the other side. "How do you want me? on you or in you love?" Sherlock's eyes widened in surprised, black pupils swallowing the blue grey of his irises. The contrast of his almost completely dark eyes against the pale of his skin and the mop of dark dishevelled curls was the most tantalizing thing John had seen. Sherlock looked completely debouched and he intended to keep him looking like that as long as he possible could.

" _Fuck_... I want you to fuck me, I need you inside me" John gave Sherlock's neck bite a slow lick with a flat tongue while grinding his hips once more earning him something between a scream and a moan. Reaching across to the bedside table digging through old crumbled receipts and batteries he reached for the bottle of clear gel and the small box of condoms he'd forgotten about for the better part of the last few months.

He kissed his way down Sherlock's chest in slow deliberate kisses. Stopping to lick at one nipple teasing it till it was up and hard for him only to move to the other one earning him wild little moans and pleading sounds that sounded a lot like his name. "Up sweetheart, lift your hips for me" Sherlock realized what was about to happen just as John positioned a pillow underneath his hips, leaving him opened and exposed.

"John!" He gasped as John's nose nuzzled between his thighs slowly suckling at the tender skin there. John leaved a wet lick across the head of Sherlock's cock, wrapping his tongue around and under , ending in a light suckle that earned him a shout of profanities. As he swallowed Sherlock almost to the root he lifted Sherlock's hands from where they had wrapped themselves in the bedsheets to his hair where they immediately weaved through and took hold. Sherlock's hips bucked into his mouth, seeking more, wanting the hot wet pressure of his tongue against his sensitive skin.

John's mouth came off Sherlock's cock with a wet " _pop"_ lips shiny with spit. "God Sherlock, you're so beautiful, I wish you could see yourself"

"Jesus! John, please!" John swallowed Sherlock back into his throat with a pleased groan as he pushed the cap of the bottle open and squeezed some of the velvety clear liquid into his right hand and reached between Sherlock's thighs, circling a lubbed finger around the tight ring of muscles. He was about let go of Sherlock to ask if he was ready when suddenly he felt Sherlock bear down at the same time that the motion made his finger slip all the way in, past the tightness of his entrance.

"Yessss..." Sherlock moaned "Oh God, that's.. uhhhmmmggg" Sherlock seemed to forget how to speak as John began to slowly ease in and out of him. He continued to lick and sock him through two fingers till Sherlock was a babbling mess and his own cock was so hard it hurt. If he wasn't careful this would all be over too quickly. He carefully removed his fingers much to Sherlock's whining and gave his full and leaking cock one last kiss before crawling up between Sherlock's thighs and plucking one of the small plastic wrappers from the box.

"S'this alright? Like this? I want to see you" Sherlock seemed to be beyond words, with flush cheeks and sweaty arms he shyly wrapped both legs around John's waist in response. With shaking hands John tore the condom open and slowly rolled it up on himself gasping at how sensitive he already was, he didn't remember the last time he'd bean so needy and eager.

"You okay love?" He asked as he guided his pulsing cock to Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock groaned almost like he was about come "Please John! What are you waiting for?!" It was all the permission John needed, all self control broken he gave one sleek trust, driving all the way home in one fluid motion. Sherlock gripped at John's shoulders as his face contorted in pleasure. John began to move in and out of him in a slow and decadent rhythm. They fucked like that, slowly, for a while. John lost in Sherlock's pants and moans of his name, Sherlock lost in pure bliss and pleasure finding a rhythm together.

"OH GOD JOHN! _FUCK_! THERE! _THERE!_ HARDER _PLEASE!_ " Sherlock was practically sobbing into John's shoulder. Whatever little self control John had managed to hold onto left him as he picked up the pace and started to slam in and out of Sherlock's hot tight body into _that_ spot over and over. Bodies hot and covered in sweat sliding against each other, moaning into each other. John reached between them and began stroking Sherlock's leaking cock in cadence with each trust. "Christ, you're so beautiful sweetheart" John panted into Sherlock's mouth between ragged and uncoordinated kisses as he continued to slam into him. It was all Sherlock needed to send him over the edge whimpering and shouting John's name.

As Sherlock came shouting his name and contracting around him, hot fluid spilling over his hand, John buried himself deep in his lover one last time as he came screaming Sherlock's name. It could've lasted only minutes but it all felt like it had lasted an entire lifetime. When the last aftershock had passed and John regained his vision he carefully and bonelessly eased out of Sherlock with a small shudder. He began to lay kisses on Sherlock's temple, down his jaw and the top of his nose till finally capturing those beautifully kiss swollen lips into a deep and slow kiss which Sherlock sleepily returned while moaning his name.

"Stay, please say you'll stay, be with me?" John asked in between lazy wet kisses.

Something in Sherlock's chest that he didn't know was there relaxed and swelled with quiet bliss at John's words. "I'd like nothing more"

With a smile that could warm the coldest of days John got up and removed his condom with a small whimper, after removing the pillow from under Sherlock's hips he walked to the bathroom only to return moments later with a warm flannel. He carefully and lovingly cleaned between Sherlock's thighs all the while whispering quiet little praises much to his delight in Sherlock's resulting blush.

That night, Sherlock fell asleep in John's arms, wrapped in the smell of sex and John. He dreamed of pancakes drizzled with honey the color of John's eyes topped with blueberries.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my every first ever fic *gasp*. Please be kind but do leave comments below if you liked it or have some thoughts as to where this story should go next. This fic hasn't been beta'd and any feedback is welcomed. Hope you enjoy it!


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